


Screw The Chantry

by IrreWilderer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ass Play, F/M, Intercrural Sex, NSFW, Oral, Role Reversal, everyone is eating ass, just... lots of butt stuff, sex in a public place, slight sub!Inquisitor and sub!Solas, terrain pieces aren't just for the War Table anymore!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7621729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrreWilderer/pseuds/IrreWilderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ma'ven is being grim/fatalistic in the War Room. Solas takes her mind off things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screw The Chantry

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for 'getting caught in the act'

 

In the dark vaults of Skyhold lay sovereigns, treaties, ties and contracts. The whole of the Inquisition’s wealth was stored there in stacks, and in sacks, and in heavily-locked chests. Guards walked the halls, whistling to themselves. Complicated wards had the doors gleaming with iridescent turquoise security. There were traps for the unsuspecting just in case.

 

Here, though, there was only dawn’s light falling through the windows. No guards. No wards. But with lives, lies, and liaisons molded to movable terrain pieces, it was easily argued that the War Room was costlier than even Skyhold’s grand coffers.

 

Polished gold and glinting onyx: the terrain piece held between the Inquisitor’s fingers was heavy for a few reasons. It represented a place called Bettws which was falling prey to rifts. They had written (in an elegant missive dated months ago) not for support or soldiers, because men wearing the uniforms of templars had come to town. The people of Bettws only wished to know if the Inquisition might provide the whereabouts of the new, strange lyrium that was as red as Andraste’s pyre. Apparently the templars had talked about it. Apparently the templars had talked of little else. And the town of Bettws wished to help their saviors as best they could.

 

Ma’ven set the piece to the side sadly. Like vertigo, she felt hundreds of lives move through the air while being displaced from their spot. There was nothing to be done for the town, no matter Leliana’s suggestion that spies be sent for reconnaissance. The red templars had wiped them off the map long ago, and now she was finishing the job. All those lives: all those children’s feet in the grass, or running in the dirt. Mothers working at mending; fathers furrowing the garden: gone.

 

Ma’ven sighed.

 

“Vhenan?”

 

Ma’ven sighed again in response to the voice of her lover approaching in echoes. _All gone._

 

She was leaning on the War Table with her crossed arms and stomach resting on the map. Her lower-half protruded obviously in the air, and, sure enough, she felt a warm palm soon sculpt over the curve of her right butt cheek. After lingering, both hands then came to entwining her waist.

 

“A precarious position, Inquisitor. Is it wise to appear so vulnerable before all the world?”

 

Ma’ven forced a chuckle as Solas stole up and pressed down in an embrace from behind that was both comforting and crowding. To luxuriate in the feel of his weight seemed wrong when she had just brushed so many families to the side with the motion of her wrist. To note every bend of Solas’s body; to hum breathlessly at the strength of his arms around her: it was selfish, given those lovers who would never again have such a chance in Bettws.

 

“’All the world’ is Fereldan and Orlais? Better not let Dorian hear that,” Ma’ven replied quietly.

 

Despite herself, she shivered as Solas nipped at her ear. Catching the peak between his lips, he pulled a little, nudging the nerves there to attention as the skin stretched. Reigning in the waking passion and turning her head, Ma’ven caught the man’s gaze, and changed their silent, sensual conversation to something she thought to be fair in her gloom.

 

“You’re awake early.”

 

“I did not sleep,” Solas confessed while standing to the side. The comment caused Ma’ven to raise her brow, and, in turn, Solas’s bent playfully.

 

“Someone had to observe your tossing all night.”

 

Ma’ven frowned; looked away. “Sorry. I worked late. Even when I stopped and came to bed, my head wouldn’t be silent. I just kept thinking, and thinking. All night.”

 

“What of?”

 

Straightening as well, the woman picked up the ominous piece of onyx and presented it. Solas took it curiously.

 

“That is Bettws,” Ma’ven explained, pointing at the thing. “A town of a couple hundred, with little more than an inn to interest travelers – aside from the local conveniences. Red templars were there a few months back. Undoubtedly everyone is dead by now. I was trying to decide whether or not to send scouts, or soldiers, or… nothing.”

 

“There may yet be survivors,” said Solas, placing the piece down. “This kept you from your sleep?” As piercing as sunbeams through clouds came the scrutinizing light of his gaze.

 

Turning away, Ma’ven bit her lip. “I was… Well, I was mostly thinking about how much I really hate red lyrium.”

 

The table blurred for a moment as the world bent and bowed from a crushing, black weight. If she looked at him, there would be a knowing, sympathetic smile as Solas waited expectantly to take her in his arms, and give some measure of reassurance. There was all manner of emotional riches to be found in Solas’s embrace: relief, protection, repose, and, of course, reprieve. So she didn’t look. Ma’ven focused on the map instead, and rested her hands on the wood swirling with its polished, rolling pattern.

 

Her beloved’s well-meaning, on-point admonishment came as predictably as the stars at evening.

 

“You are not at fault for the fate of these people. Neither are you responsible for the death of your clan. This guilt, Ma’ven; this lingering melancholy: it is— “

 

“I know,” she answered evenly. And still the terrain pieces waited for her righteous wisdom. “I know. You are right, of course: it’s useless. A distraction, as you’d say. I just… I just cannot help but feel…”

 

“Feel?”

 

Questioning her with a quirk of his lips, Solas placed himself behind her once more, and wrapped his hands around the woman’s waist. After warring with a heavy conscience, Ma’ven knitted their fingers, and put one of his palms over her heart pounding with pain.

 

As they stood there, the room expanded for the lengthening morning pouring white sunbeams through the windows. The light touched over carved walls, stone flooring, Inquisition banners, and, while Solas breathed across her earlobe, hand flexing as though stroking her spirit, Ma’ven was reminded that there was something beyond these few failures. There was the room itself, the castle, the mountains and world beyond, and morning. And the more tenderly he touched her, the more beautiful it seemed.

 

“Feel happiness instead, my heart.” Solas’s lips lingered in her hair while the tip of his nose nudged through dark, alyssum-scented locks. “Satisfaction for lives you’ve improved; contentment for the people you have saved. Do not dwell on failed duty that would have your attention divided. Instead, feel pride for what you have accomplished, for it is deserving.”

 

The man knew just how to dip his words into her like fingers stirring water to a turbulent, heady whirl. Praise from a lover was compliment enough, but she’d respected Solas for mind and attitude long before pursuing a relationship. The dark doubt at Ma’ven’s brow softened to submission as she finally melted against contours swathed in cotton.

 

Contours which rolled like hard hills and generous mounds in one very curious, specific spot, at the moment.

 

A giggle bubbled in the Inquisitor’s chest.

 

“I feel pride alright. He’s pressing into my back a little.”

 

It was not the first time Solas’s name had been used for nefarious purposes. His light snort ended with a huff because he’d all but seen it coming.

 

“Complaint or observation, Inquisitor?” he asked wryly.

 

Closing her eyes, Ma’ven hummed. There seemed a thick, inky outline around their limbs, drawing them together, and it made them but one being in a single moment in time. Her shoulders were cradled by his chest, and Solas’s sculpted stomach smoothed across her lower back. She was touched everywhere by every bit of him, and became so incredibly aware of her own body while considering it alongside his. Then the hand over Ma’ven’s heart began to tentatively message from the fingertips. The other palm slipped around to grip her ass just as her fondled breast began to tingle in echoes.

 

The pleasure from both attended areas met like any naturally explosive phenomenon. Smoldering embers flooded her with warmth from the touches to her buttock, while the wind in her lungs hurried as her breast was squeezed languidly. Flame and air met, and sent the coiled need in her stomach to bursting. Keening, Ma’ven flung her head back, and pressed harder into him, so utterly desperate to get lost in these caresses.

 

A sudden shock of electricity focused her senses, reminding Ma’ven that she’d been asked something. The feeling dwindled, but her nipple still burned. As did the pool of desire flooding her legs. “I—oh! Um, question, actually.”

 

Her vision clouded again once Solas’s hand had moved from her breast to her throat. Cupping her chin between forefinger and thumb, the man brought her gaze to his own so delicately; so tenderly. “Of course.”

 

Not that Ma’ven could see much through her lust-weighted eyelids. “Why are… wh… mn!” A gasp cut through her question. The kneading at her ass was too much teasing and promise. “Why are you so good to me?”

 

There came no answer. Solas’s gradually darkening stare flickered away and back. The depth of his gaze became a bottomless well of untold, half-started sentences, which it seemed he might finish, for once. Where was he from, really? What had he been before taking the mantle of apostate? Where, in the name of the Creators, had he learned these tricks with his fingers?! Had he been married? Had he a wife? Husband? Had he years to perfect that thing with his thumb before—

 

But it appeared Ma’ven would be left wanting – of answers, at least. The hand on her buttock moved around to cup her mound through her clothing, while the other snatched up a tall, chess-piece-like chunk of onyx which looked like a pawn: wide bottom, bulbous head. Solas brought it in front of her face. His accent thickened with his insistence and desire.

 

“Because this is not Bettws. This is not the sum of failure to prevent what you could not foresee. This is Redcliffe, the Dales; your trials in the Fade. Victories, Ma’ven.” Solas’s fingers insisted up through the cradle of her thighs and made her twitch. “Victories and valour. Because this – _this_ – gives me hope. _You_ give me hope, vhenan.”

 

She swallowed thickly. In the following seconds, both of Solas’s hands went about tearing Ma’ven’s tunic off while she was kept flush against him, and he wasn’t kind about baring her. His sounds –hurried huffs; hungry growling– were animalistic compared to his normal composure, and drowned out the song of giving shirt clasps. His member insisted terribly at her lower back by the time he’d shoved Ma’ven’s trousers down half-way, along with her smalls, and discarded her breast band without ceremony.

 

She trembled. The cool air of the castle kissed along fair skin, but not without teeth. It nibbled at the fleshier parts of her butt, her nipples, and puffed a cool breath across her damp folds, which reminded her that she was really _, really_ naked in the middle of the War Room. Watching Solas over her shoulder, she saw him staring at her thighs and hips, utterly engrossed, and still completely dressed himself. The stark contrast had Ma’ven reeling at the fact that her lover hadn’t the patience to take her to bed, or a private room, or even a dark corner. He had to have her _here_ and **_now_** ; needed to see her naked while still confined to his own clothing. There was power in how desperate she seemed to make him, at times, and as a moan hitched in Solas’s throat, Ma’ven forgot all but him.

 

“Ar lath ma,” Solas promised as he pushed her to laying face-down on the table. Complying, noting how wonderfully crushed her breasts felt against the wood, excitement coursed through her belly as she imagined Solas’s eyes raking over her exposed body, taking in the sight of it and knowing it was here for him. Ma’ven expected to hear the swish of his own disrobing, but instead there came the surprising, writhing, wet, insistent pressure of Solas’s tongue probing through her folds. The first lick to her labia had her shaking.

 

“Oh, Creators!”

 

Gasping, Ma’ven saw her breath steam on the polished table, and heard Solas sucking her lips with abandon. The slurping, wet sounds reminded her of a starved man at supper. Considering what she was bent over, that wasn’t too far from the truth.

 

The base noises were just as exhilarating as the act. Every flick of his tongue earned a little wet splash; when he delved deep, there was sloshing. It proved difficult not to kick out with her legs pinned in her pants, and the immobility became excruciating when Solas started stroking the flat of his tongue up and towards her other entrance. Dragging over every stirring nerve between her pussy and ass, Ma’ven nearly gushed as he lingered and lapped at the spot so near, but not quite at, her tight ring, and it had her softening, opening, and _Gods, help me –Elgar’nan!–_ she felt so pliant and empty; waiting and gaping…

 

“More perfect than what the kitchens would prepare, I think,” Solas remarked as he started probing with his finger. Feeling filled, Ma’ven bucked, had nothing to grip, and all she could do was ball her fists and stifle her screaming, knowing only too well how loudly the room sent quiet words to raucous echoing.

 

“Solas, I— “

 

Ma’ven went mute. The man’s tongue continued to make smug remarks between her folds as Solas now, in earnest, made love to her with his mouth. In and out, he fucked her with all the deliberate poetry he usually saved for conversation. Lips which often braided meaning and metaphor had Ma’ven talking back in hiccups and pitiful shrieks while her clit was tickled, then assaulted, by the deft tip of a silver tongue. The swell was strong, but receded when Solas moved his head back, gathered up the woman’s slick and his own saliva, and coated her asshole with nature’s various lubrications. Ma’ven was an absolute tortured, sweating mess as something new, blunt, hard, and deliciously wide was introduced cautiously to the ring of her buttocks.

 

“Ahh! _Mph_. What… what is—“

 

Ma’ven felt herself swallow around the head of the object and mewled. It did not go deep, but it was all she felt, and it felt so good. Solas tugged a little: once, and then again, and then he tugged steadily, but did not pull it out. This teased all the nerves of her hole to throbbing. The throbbing vibrated to her neglected core, and when her clit became suddenly stimulated by frenzied, merciless rubbing by Solas’s other hand, she couldn’t breath.

 

“Oh, I— Solas, _Gods_ , it’s… what… That’s not your finger!”

 

Solas chuckled at the astute observation, and it caused little, light wisps of his breath to curl across her cunt.

 

“Correct.  It is… Well. Were I a vulgar man, I would speak of screwing the Orlesian nobility. Or perhaps the templars. Or whatever problem this terrain piece may represent.”

 

Ma’ven’s mouth was already slack in her lust, but, for effect, she _really_ wished she could have let it fall open. “You’re—? Oh, Mythal have mercy on you. You are a bad, bad man… nnnn! “

 

“ _Resourceful_ man, Inquisitor.”

 

To punish her for such offensive mislabelling, the implement began working hard and fast at Ma’ven’s ass until glorious, burning friction formed from the lack of serious lubrication. Absolutely loving anal, even rough attention, this caused the woman to see stars on the horizon of her rolling eyes and she wriggled her hips, trying to take more.

 

“Solas, please,” begged Ma’ven, propping up on her elbows and bending her back, feeling a new wave of pleasure spike at this smallest change in position. “I—ah! I need you in me, emma lath. I need you… in… oh, please—”

 

“We haven’t proper oils, Ma’ven,” Solas reminded. He finally climbed to his feet, and went about freeing his cock from constricting pants which he shoved down to mid-thigh. His hands continued to kneed at his lover’s round, presented ass, and, pulling her cheeks apart, Solas hissed at the sight he was met with. The Inquisitor was visibly slick everywhere, and her puckered ring was obviously ready for more earnest preparation, though it had noticeably slackened. “I will not risk causing you pain.”

 

“But I _am_ in pain,” Ma’ven wailed darkly. She reached around and parted herself further when Solas’s hands weren’t stretching her enough. “I’m _dying_!”

 

Solas’s laugh became dire panting as he succumbed to thrusting his cock between the cheeks of her bottom. Ma’ven, still spreading herself open, squealed as his head rolled up and over the sensitive nerves of her anus while his balls slapped heavy against her cunt. Ma’ven rutted back –swayed her hips in a hypnotic dance which nearly enticed him to more erotic action– but Solas would not give in.

 

“Still yourself,” pleaded the apostate as the warmth of her beckoned that he plunge deep. The warmth of the room, and their exertions, had sweat beading along his brow. “You will not thank me for the inability to sit during council with your advisors.”

 

“Probably not,” Ma’ven agreed with a grin. Instead of parting, her hands pushed her buttocks together, creating greater pressure around –and for– Solas’s cock. His thrusting slowed in shock before speeding up desperately. “But a… as I stood here, staring at the table and feeling sore, utterly unable to concentrate, I’d be thinking how good it had been as you took me, full and completely and deep in my tight a— ah!”

 

Solas pulled her up roughly to standing. Their bodies pressed together while his cock slipped between her thighs, though not to penetrating. His member merely became cradled between her lips, and the glistening head could be seen poking out below her mound.

 

It elicited triumphant giggling from Ma’ven, for it wasn’t only the thick throb of his digit sliding easily through her slick, but also the predictable way in which Solas had reacted.

 

“I am not to be manipulated as our audience, Ma’ven,” Solas rumbled in her ear. Where his tone lacked in malice, it swelled with affection, and a surprising amount of hard-brought, tensed indifference. “You cannot have me bend by a clever word and the work of your wrist alone.”

 

Now Ma’ven laughed from her belly. It wasn’t a statement, or even challenge. It was an invitation. A _request_. Looking up and over her shoulder, Solas appeared resolute and unshakable –and absolutely lovely, his lips still plumped from working her– but Ma’ven knew him. She knew that dark around the blue-grey of his eyes; that storm waiting to spend.

 

“No?” The Inquisitor also knew she was being played as much as Solas had promised he would not be. And that was fine. It was _exhilarating_. She was both powerful and vulnerable; in charge, and under his sway. She picked up the terrain piece Solas had used on her, and pressed it to his lips, smiling smugly when he inhaled the clinging scent. It had his eyes blazing.

 

“Lick,” Ma’ven commanded.

 

The tip of his tongue darted out at the order. Solas’s stare met hers in submission, trying to see if she was pleased, and it made Ma’ven gasp while he lapped over the shining onyx, brushing and wetting her fingers as well. Rewarding him for the fire he stoked with so simple a thing, she rocked her hips back and forth, sliding the lips of her pussy over the length of his straining cock, and it spurred Solas to work his jaw now, too, as his tongue laved the terrain piece like it was his lover’s skin.

 

“Solas, that’s…” Ma’ven tried hard not to blush, but with her admission came a rouge to her cheeks. That tongue which drew a map right to her most primal needs was painting her with new want as she imagined it on her breast, or belly. “That’s so arousing, love.”

 

And just as the red had crept to her face, a pleased light slowly brightened Solas’s eyes.

 

“How do I taste?” she asked.

 

Solas smiled. He ended his ministrations with a kiss to the top of the terrain piece. “Exquisite. Slightly metallic, though that may be the stone.”

 

“Mm.” Eyes glazing over, Ma’ven rolled the head of it along the peaks of his perfect, thick lips. She wondered what sort of agonized expressions she might pull them to; what new endearments he might swear in the heat of the moment as the object met the heat of _him_. “Would you like to know how it feels?”

 

“Vhenan, _yes_ ,” Solas breathed. His hands gripped her waist at the offer. “Please.”

 

Ma’ven would have guided him to switching positions, but he was impatient, and shuffled to the table for the obstacle of his pants. She discarded hers, turned back, and saw Solas bent over the War Table’s edge expectantly. So many expanses of muscle, fair skin, and furious freckles damp with a slight sheen of sweat: Ma’ven almost drooled at the sight.

 

“I love you,” she whispered, meaning not to say it at all, as she knelt behind him and licked lightly at his entrance. A couple of months ago, this would have been unthinkable. Such new and exploratory passion had seemed impossible when Solas remained keen on keeping Ma’ven at arms length, no matter that he’d captured her heart in a vise. All those nights… all those lonely nights of wondering what he would feel like as she sadly coaxed her own orgasm…

 

Now, however, Solas was whining for the priming laps at his buttocks, with his cock leaking fluid, and swearing in a string of elvhen under his shaking breaths. It was beautiful. She loved it. She loved _him_.

 

Ma’ven had never done this for Solas, no matter the amount of times he’d gone at her ass like a glutton. She went cautiously, memorizing details of this part of him, while her slow speed excited the man further. He smelled salty, tasted the same, and the texture was wrinkled, and smooth, and lovely. Her hands parted his cheeks, and his arousal parted his ring, as he relaxed and took her tongue deeper. From experience, she knew the area between asshole and pussy to be wonderful when played with, so she wriggled at Solas’s perineum. After a few strokes, he wailed.

 

“Feels good?” Ma’ven asked rhetorically, sending the vibrations of her words across the sensitive flesh. Solas, forever with a clever retort and always so stoic, was rendered speechless and brought near to sobbing as she returned to stroking this sensitive spot.

 

He was so loud. As Ma’ven worked, spitting when more lubrication was needed, the sounds of the act started to echo, but the commotion coming from Solas’s mouth was more vulgar than anything. He swore in the common tongue, which was surprising. Barks roared guttural; moans made their way to Ma’ven’s ears which had her convinced that she sounded like a prude whenever Solas’s face was buried between her legs. Once, hard and resolute, his fist smacked the table while Ma’ven thought to take his cock in hand and stroke it firmly while licking his ass. Then Solas’s nails sang so innocently as they scratched at the wood while she continued more of the same.

 

“I will…” Every word Solas parted with seemed to take a part of his spirit, it was so difficult. “I will spend soon if you do not— “

 

Ma’ven, still kneeling, guided him to facing her, and lovingly nuzzled the glistening cockhead bobbing before her.

 

“Stop?” she suggested wryly, kissing the tip, and then holding it between her teeth with the slightest of pressure. Solas’s head fell back. His hips jerked forward.

 

“Ah!”

 

Velvet skin was in need of an apology, and Ma’ven went to atone with abandon, though it had been her lover’s own fault she’d grazed harder than she’d meant to. Taking his member to the back of her throat, she tickled and tormented her gag reflex, but refused to let up until either she needed oxygen, or Solas was bucking at her mouth. It came sooner than she’d anticipated. Solas grabbed her head and pulled her closer – but not for the anticipated reason.

 

“Oh, my!”

 

Leliana. Leliana was in the War Room.

 

Coughing and sputtering, Ma’ven pulled away from Solas’s handsy gut reaction to cover his genitals with her face (as though that had been a well-constructed plan). The Spymaster was gone, and heard to be fending off others outside the door, by the time Ma’ven was on her jellied legs and trying to dress.

 

This was bad. This was… wrong? Shameful? She found it difficult to define their actions outside of Chantry-brand criticism, which normally she scoffed at, but she knew they’d gotten carried away. There was a certain amount of decorum she had to adhere to, and, had the cleaning staff, or someone beyond her tight-lipped advisors saw them, this could have been fodder for terrible gossip. Part of her feared that. Part of her feared the damage it might do to the reputation of her institution.

 

“I have no words, vhenan. To say that I am sorry for this embarrassment would fall short,” Solas apologized as he helped her into her tunic, having remained mostly dressed and needing little time for himself. He looked into her eyes, attempting to gauge her dismay. “Surely your Spymaster may forgive an early morning’s indiscretion?”

 

“I don’t think it’s that early any more, Solas,” Ma’ven noted evenly. The horror beating her heart to near shattering had her slightly light-headed. There was certainly a cloud of delirium dizzying her mind. She wondered if that wasn’t due to the averted, disappointed orgasm.

 

Pointing at the terrain piece sitting on the table, she frowned. “I didn’t get to stick the chantry up your butt.”

 

Solas snorted.

 

“Or templars, or whatever,” Ma’ven smiled lightly, laughing at the situation. As the couple fell to exhausted giggling, their arms found each other, and Ma’ven took one last moment to rest her head upon his chest. “Oh, Dread Wolf take me. At least it wasn’t Josephine. Or Cullen.”

 

“I have my suspicions the commander would find this atmosphere rather erotic,” Solas shrugged, nodding towards the poor, abused War Table. Kissing her brow mostly lovingly, and maybe a little apologetically, he beamed down at her and rose his brow. “Perhaps we should go.”

 

Marching out, Ma’ven promised to meet her advisors within the half-hour. Before they parted –Solas for his rotunda, and Ma’ven for her quarters– the man took her hand in his and squeezed affectionately. Without so much as a suspicious look, Solas then left her side, leaving Ma’ven to blushingly hide the stolen terrain piece in her palm as she went to change.

 

 _For later_ , she thought with a smile, quickly ascending the steps to her room to clean up.


End file.
